


Serpent,  Lion, and Flame

by CaptainXeno



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Abuse of Authority, Abuse of Powers, Author Is Sleep Deprived, BAMF Cullen Rutherford, Break Up, Consent Issues, Disordered Eating, Dissociation, Dom/sub Undertones, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Ending Relationship, Extremely Dubious Consent, Fist Fights, Hurt/Comfort, I Don't Even Know, I'm Bad At Tagging, I'm Going to Hell, I'm Sorry, M/M, Mages and Templars, Mild Blood, Minor Injuries, Multi, Rape Aftermath, Rape/Non-con - Freeform, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rescue, Self Confidence Issues, Self-Denial, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Hatred, Sub Drop, Subspace, Templars (Dragon Age), The Author Regrets Everything, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, abuse of cliches and good taste, abuse of magic, abuse of templar abilities, as in zero actual negotiation, author is Fandom trash, author is hiding in dumpster, help I'm tagging and I can't stop, horrible kink negotiation, implied threat of gang rape, mild violence, obviously because Dorian is involved, relationship ending, seriously never ever do it this way, what even is this, white knight - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-04
Updated: 2016-06-30
Packaged: 2018-07-12 07:11:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7090981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainXeno/pseuds/CaptainXeno
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I don't even... </p><p>Dorian is in a terrible relationship with Dairic a POS average grunt soldier of the Inquisition (OC). He's way too good for this man, and he's being treated like crap, but he can't see it because he has zero experience with relationships. He mistakes possessive behavior for affection and violation of sexual boundaries for passion. </p><p>A badly negotiated ( not at all negotiated ) poly scene in the undercroft of Skyhold quickly crosses the line into actual assault/non-con. White Knight/BAMF Cullen Rutherford to the rescue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Serpent in Flames

**Author's Note:**

> I don't write smut. I also don't write non-con. Except now I apparently do. Halp. I am doing myself a concern, friend.
> 
> I have no explanation for whatever this is.

Serpent, Lion and Flame

***

Summary: Cullen rescues Dorian from Templars in Skyhold. His soldier lover was taking advantage of Dorian's low self esteem about sex & relationships, as well as his unhealthy Tevene outlook on sex between men as being limited to extremely casual & brief physical encounters.

***

Not beta'd, typed on my phone, full of triggers for everything awful, NSFW, NSFL. Probably nobody should read this.

***

The undercroft echoed with the sound of water, soft lap of wavelets kissing the edges of granite basins. Dorian laid his head back against the edge of the bath, neck pillowed on a folded towel draped over the sharp stone edge. Floating globes of magelight reflected off the rippling surface of the pool, mirrored the shapes of flowing water in pale blue light across the rough ceiling. 

He sighed, lifted one hand from the cooling water to idly trace a fire rune on the wall of the tub beside him. The gray stone glowed sullen red in curving lines and swirls. Curls of steam coiled in wisps from the surface near the glyph. The mage purred a low noise of satisfaction as a wash of heat bloomed across his skin underwater. 

Coming to the frozen south hadn't been quite the desperate unmitigated disaster he'd feared. For every loss there had been an eventual gain.

The Pavus family fortune complete with unpleasant strings attached had gone, traded for his income as advisor to the Inquisition on all matters Venatori and Tevinter. 

Access to the training facilities and research libraries of the Minrathous Circles were lost, only to be replaced in time by access to fascinating colleagues as Solas, Vivienne, and Dagna, each one a wealth of strange new perspectives on magical technique and the Fade.

Certain gracious and well-defined "arrangements" with hidden lovers, all gone, replaced by the disconcertingly blunt yet useful Ferelden openness about one's choice of partner.

Surely, he reasoned, it follows there must be a hidden trade-off to never ever being warm enough.

The clash of male voices bounced off the stairway walls, the clatter of armor, thud of boots on wide stone stairs. Afternoon drills for the experienced troops must have just ended, replaced by basic training for the recruits.

Unconsciously, Dorian frowned as he recognized one voice among the group.

It isn't that I'm displeased with the idea of seeing Dairic, as such, he told himself. 

With a soft groan of effort as stiff muscles and new bruises protested, he climbed from the sunken pool and wrapped himself in his plush teal velvet robe. 

It's only that I just got the mud of the Fallow Mire off of myself, and I'm looking forward to some time alone with a cup of hot tea and that book on Ferelden chess strategies the Commander loaned me, he told himself.

 

Hurriedly, he pulled on his thin linen trees and knotted the drawstring, then piled his scented soap, scrub brush, and towels quickly into the wooden bucket. He hooked the rope bucket handle over one elbow as he toed on his fleece lined leather slippers.

Time with Dairic is invigorating, but so unduly... physical. I'm in no mood for more bruises, no matter how pleasantly acquired, he thought.

"S'true, sparring with th' mages does get people hurt," Dairic interrupted one of the other unfamiliar voices, "But th' Commander has a point. Coming up against mages in th' field without knowin' how to fight 'em, that'll get more people hurt worse."

"That's what Templars are for, don't you see?" The other voice was low, growly, as if one of the great bears of the Hinterlands had been stuffed into plate armor. "Your Commander, he's good enough. Means well. But you can't just teach everyone a few Templar fighting tricks and send them out to face blood mages and abominations."

"Speaking of mages, there's the prettiest 'Vint in Skyhold," Dairic laughed and caught Dorian by the bicep. The Altus had meant to nod politely but brusquely, as if in a hurry, and brush past the mixed group of Templars and Inquisition soldiers.

Dairic shifted to slide a possessive arm around Dorian's waist. His dark blond hair clung to his forehead with sweat. The man smelled of hot metal, musk, wet leather. It would have been an intoxicating combination if not for the ozone and dried blood scent of Lyrium that clung to the pair of Templars standing in the back of the group.

"Ah, Dairic," Dorian replied, "You say the nicest things. Although, I'm also the only Tevinter in Skyhold. Since Krem's nationality is assuredly more Charger than Tevinter." He gave a shallow half bow to the cluster of men gathered behind Dairic. "Apologies, but I must be going. Our Lady Inquisitor requires my presence in the War Room. Something about Venatori pillaging ruins in the desert."

Dairic laughed and pulled Dorian along with him through the archway, leading him back into the rear of bathing room. His friends broke into laughter. A couple of them whistled and muttered lewd comments. Dorian felt a blush pickle hotly along his jaw and cheekbones.

Kaffas. Will I ever get used to how crude and open these mud-covered dog soldiers are about men lying with men? He wondered. 

It had taken him weeks of being known as "Dairic's Vint piece of arse" before he realized that the ribald teasing was in fact only teasing, and that the condescension and suspicion was because he was a mage and a northerner, not because he was a man who preferred other men as lovers.

"She won't need ya for a bit, then. Guess you wouldn't have heard down here, but some loony painted blue just turned up and started chucking live goats at the north tower. Looks like the council's gonna be a while sorting that one. So you got a minute to enjoy yerself."

Dorian winced as Dairic punctuated his last statement by clapping one gauntleted hand hard on the mage's left buttock and squeezing. "I must have gotten water in my ears. It sounded almost as though you said a madman in blue body paint is flinging actual livestock at our ramparts."

The Kirkwaller chuckled, and pulled Dorian against his chest so they stood nose to nose. "Yeah. I did say. Only not so fancy like. I ain't smart like you."

Dorian looked into the earnest blue eyes of his... whatever they were to each other. "Dairic, I'm flattered, truly, but the Mire was exhausting. Mud, walking corpses, mud, freezing rain, insane tribespeople, more mud... I'd be no good at all to you. Perhaps we can pick this up at the Tavern tonight? First round on me."

The soldier tightened his grip, wringing a gasp from Dorian. "It's sweet, you wantin' ta do your best for me. But it don't matter," he cupped the mage's jaw in one mailed hand, rubbed his leather clad thumb across Dorian's lower lip, "Tired, filthy, or sleepy, pissed off an' yelling about demons and mage shite...I'd have you any of them ways. I can't stop thinking about that fine arse, or you down on yer knees with that hot mouth... them things you can do..."

As he spoke, Dairic walked them slowly backwards into the chilly corner behind the pillar of the archway dividing the bathing area from the smithy. He captured Dorian's mouth in a rough, biting kiss that tasted of ale and smoked meat, nipping at his lower lip, plunging his tongue into his lover's mouth, drawing the breath from his lungs. The loosely belted robe had come open from Dairic's rough handling. Dorian pulled away long enough to gasp a sharp breath as the gold piercings in his nipples scraped across the cold metal of the infantryman's breastplate.

"I just washed," He protested. The hardening proof of his unwitting arousal ground against the soldier's armored thigh. Although the man was coarse and brutish, it was thrillingly novel to be so openly wanted. Nobody seemed to care what Dairic did with him, no matter how publicly.

His soldier lover had no taboos or compunction about yanking him down onto his lap in the Herald's Rest, palming his swelling cock through the thin satin of his leggings as Sera made ribald comments and Varric rolled his eyes and looked away. 

Their first time, after a night of drunken flirting in the camps down in the ruined courtyard of Skyhold, he'd been pushed down on Dairic's bedroll, scratchy Dales wool pressed against his cheek, oaky burn of Gray Warden whiskey on his tongue, thick musk of smoke and oiled canvas and horse sweat heavy in his lungs as Dairic took him in quick hard rhythm just outside the circle of campfire light. 

The man's tentmates had toasted sausages over the coals nearly in arm's reach of the rutting couple, even as Dorian bit down hard into the leather of Dairic's bracers to choke back the raw bestial sounds that kept trying to claw up out of his throat. "Hey, Lars," Dairic had grunted, "Pass that oil over." The swarthy surface dwarf had shrugged and tossed the vial of armor oil into the shadows in their general direction with a muttered "Give it back when yer done, mate." 

Dorian was dragged out of his flash of memory as Dairic yanked the bathrobe down over his shoulders, threads popping in the collar seam. He bit a kiss into the bared side of his neck, tweaked a nipple between gauntleted fingers. "Yeah? Good. I like gettin' you dirty." 

His gauntleted hands were heavy on Dorian's collarbones as he pushed the smaller man downwards. The mage sighed and shook his head with a small smile. "Why can't I ever seem to refuse you?" He teased, "It must be all the sweet things you say."

Gracefully, he sank to his knees, ridges of flagstone digging in under kneecaps. His fingers moved on their own, muscles trained in the motion, unbuckling the soldier's codpiece.

It isn't that I don't enjoy our encounters he reminded himself, as he drew out Dairic's length and worked the swollen shaft of flesh into his throat. Mostly the fellow is quite enjoyable in his brash, primal way. No, it's merely that there's a time and a place. Unless you're a Kirkwaller immigrant turned Fereldan soldier, apparently; then the time is always "now" and the place is "nearly anywhere." 

Dairic's hands clenched in Dorian's wet hair, guiding him to open wider, slide his mouth deeper down on the shaft. The mage found himself going through the motions, habit and skill sufficient to leave the soldier panting, head thrown back, as meanwhile Dorian found his mind was miles away.

If we were back in Tevinter, I would think it was close to time to end this little arrangement, find a new "close friend" he thought. Except that here in the South I need all the friends I can get. Of any kind.

Besides, I admit I find myself confused about my feelings for this man, he admitted to himself.

Dorian opened his eyes to look up at the heavy, well muscled brute thrusting into the back of his throat. Fine veins stood out at Dairic's temples. His eyelashes fluttered over closed eyes, the dark blond of shortbread cakes, longer than seemed reasonable for such a crudely physical type.

He isn't at all I could ever have envisioned myself attracted to. Certainly we have nothing to talk about, Dorian mused. 

Dorian shifted his weight, easing the press of flagstone into his bare knees, bent his head to the task. Wet sounds came from the slick member sliding into his parted lips, drool slicked his chin. It was debauched and utterly undignified. The adrenaline thrill of how tawdry and animalistic it all was sent a hot swollen warmth spreading low in his groin. There was something so delightfully filthy about becoming everything his father had accused him of being. Dairic stroked his face, rubbed circles on his scalp with armored fingertips.

No, not at all my type. I cannot truly envision a future for this, he found himself thinking. And yet, in his way he seems to care for me. He claims me openly, unashamedly, as his bed partner. That's more than I would have ever dared to dream I could have back home. Surely that's not something to cast away casually because I have a few complaints, or because I find myself getting a bit bored with a certain, hmm, lack of technique.

Dairic's hips moved in short, shallow jerks now. He was close. Dorian wondered if he had time to work the drawstring of his trews loose, slide one hand lower, and join the man in his release. 

As if his thoughts warped the Fade into reality, the mage felt a heavy body press against him from behind, as strong hands tugged the slipknot free and pulled his trousers low on his hips. He made a startled noise of complaint, stifled by the swollen shaft filling his throat. Reflexively, he half turned to see who was handling him so familiarly. Dairic knotted his fist in Dorian's hair, gave a sharp tug to keep him at his task.

"Good to see a Northern mage who knows his place," a smooth tenor voice drawled beside Dorian's left ear. 

One of the Templars who recently joined us from Val Royeax. Arvus. Alvar? Alvis? Something like that, Dorian's memory supplied. A good bet he's one of the clique I've been avoiding since they're just full of cliche Southern prejudices about magic and mages.

"Are you the sort of man to share his good fortune with his friends?" The Templar asked.

There, now Dairic will send him off and there'll be no need for my temper to get us both in trouble with the Order, Dorian thought, as relief flooded throught him, loosing taut muscles. Violet sparks danced in pale shimmers over his skin as he released the mana he'd unwittingly gathered in preparation to firmly turn down this intruder with extreme prejudice. 

"Can't say I never thought of it," Dairic rumbled, voice taut with the pleasure of the mage's throat closed tight around his shaft, "He's made for it, sure. Can't get enough. Never turns down a chance."

Because you always want me so badly, I'd feel guilty putting you off! Dorian snapped at his bedmate inside the confines of his own mind.

Alvis stroked his palm down the Altus' s bare hip, chuckled low in his chest "Aye, mages are greedy that way. No discipline. Always wanting more than is good for them. Shall we see if we can satisfy?"

Dairic nodded, quick, breathless. His pale blue eyes were hotly intent on Dorian's. He timed his words between spaced out slow thrusts into the mage's mouth."Yeah? Want to try it? Come on, luv, think how good, both of us filling you up. So hot, the way you always take all I kin give ya. Want to watch my pretty mage come apart betweeb us. Ye'll be good for us, won't ya, luv?"

The endearment undid Dorian completely. Although he knew he was likely reading too much emotion into a casual pet name, Dairic had never called him that before. Hot tears stung at the corners of his eyes. He curled his fingers around Dairic's, nodded assent, let his spine curve into a loose arch of surrender. He couldn't say he'd never imagined it, either. Well. Something like this, anyhow. Although in the fantasy there were Antivan silk sheets and a pair of Orlesian chevaliers...

Alvis yanked Dorian's trews down to mid thigh, wadded the velvet robe in one fist at the small of his back. He heard the creak and jingle of buckles undone, the gutteral rasp of the older man spitting on his palm, wet slide of skin as he slicked the moisture over his cock. A bruising grasp of fingers bit into his hip, pulled him off balance, forced him to cling to Dairic's waist.

Kaffas, Dorian swore mentally he felt the hard blunt head of it pressing steadily at his entrance. The Templar wasn't even going to prepare him. It was savage, uncivilized; everything he'd fantasized about as a young man, snatching stolen moments to read thirdhand copies of forbidden smutty books smuggled into linen closets and basement wine cellar alcoves.

Dairic shoved into his mouth harder, pushing down his throat as Dorian swallowed in reflex, over and over, his lips brushing wet blond curls as the soldier gave him the full thick length if it. His jaw ached with the stretch, he had barely a half second to snatch a shallow breath at the far end of each thrust. And in counterpoint, Alvis kneeling behind him, the slow heavy stretch of him pressing gradually forward, spreading a low sweet burning ache down into Dorian's thighs up into his belly. It was awful and glorious. His mind drifted down into that stillness he sometimes found within him during moments of intensity, a place where he was only a passive embodiment of sensation - breath, heartbeat, bruising hands moving on tawny skin.

"Wasted as a mage," another of the Templars opined, "He would've made a jewel among whores."

Burning tears left trails down Dorian's cheeks as he realized they were all watching as he was taken, debauched, used. It was horrible, wonderful, everything he felt was overwheming and unnameable. His chest heaved for air, gray sparks drifting at the edges of his vision.

"Whore, is it?" Alvis growled "Aye, when I've done with you, I'll warrant there's others here will want a turn." A hard snap of his hips slid him the rest of the way in, too deep, too sudden, too much. At the same moment, Dairic's cock pulsed and throbbed in his mouth, spilling thick warm jets down the back of his tongue. He tried to swallow, but Alvis was already moving inside him, a burning stretch, full and hot, throwing his balance off.

Dorian shoved Dairic away, choking, gasping, white rivulets dripping down his chin. "Stop, stop. Need a moment. Just... let me..." he tried to crawl forward on hands and knees, ease the arch of his back into a less painful angle. At a look from Alvis, Dairic grabbed a fistful of hair at the nape of Dorian's neck and used the grip to shove him back hard into the man's next thrust. There had been torment and pleasure rising in tandem within Dorian until now, but this new thing was only shock and hurting, a deep raw stab of pain.

Enough is enough, Dorian decided. "All right, I'm done, everyone off the Altus," he announced, voice tense but surprisingly steady and dignified for a man on his knees with a Templar mounting him like some sort of stud horse.

"Learn. Your. Place, mage." Alvis gritted through clenched teeth, punctuating each word with a deep, punishing thrust into the man underneath him.

Dorian cried out once, a raw open throated sound of pure sensation, cut short as he bit his lower lip, clawed into the rough stone beneath his fingers, and called the storm to answer him. 

"Get. Off. Me." He growled, blue white thunderbolts clustering in his palms, writhing up his forearms.

Alvis barked a short laugh, and did...something. A plume of dust rose in a ring around them as a silent shockwave of power blasted outward. Dorian crumpled face first to the floor as the Fade pulled away from him, a feeling as if someone yanked a chair away just as he sat down. His levinbolts sparked and flared out like snuffed candles. He reached for his mana to call them back. It simply was not there. The maelstrom of power that always swirled inside him was still, empty, silent.

"What in the Maker's name?! All right, who did that?" A new voice, flat with anger, at the head of the stairs. 

Pupils wide and black with shock and terror, the mage fought to escape. He kicked, trying to aim for knees, jabbed his elbow back at Alvis's face. The heavier man crushed him full length under his weight, slid one arm across his throat, the other under his belly to hitch Dorian's hips up into a more convenient angle.

"Ah, what now, mage," the Templar whispered into the side of his neck, "No more tricks up your sleeves? I'll show you the only trick a mage needs."

***

The onyx knife dripped slow red in Halvard's raised hand. He should move, Dorian knew, vaguely. He should be running. But his muscles seemed locked in place, limbs crushed under some great chill weight.

Face down on the floor behind his father, the kitchen maid fumbled with numb fingers at her slit throat, wet rattle of blood in her windpipe as she choked and drowned.

"Why are you doing this?" Dorian snarled.

"You must learn your place, Dorian, " His father chided. The enchanted silk rope around Dorian's throat tightened at a gesture from the older mage. "If you won't learn, then we must teach you." 

Dorian spat at him. Halvard sighed, and began the first syllables of a sibilant slow chant. His fingertips glistened with a slick crimson sheen as he reached for his son's forehead.

At last, the glyph Dorian had been tracing and retracing in tiny motions against the marble wall behind him finally pulsed and woke into a living wave of kinetic force. Glass shards flew, satin curtains flapped and swirled. The room rang as if a great Dwarven hammer smote against the Veil. Coils of lyrium infused rope dropped away, freeing him. Dorian bolted, half blinded, staggering and dizzy.

***

The weight on his back was gone. Dorian scrambled to his feet, gathering his robe around him. His ears rang, his vision swam in a wavy blur. Even his skin hurt, as if he'd been swatted aside by a giant. He leaned his forehead against the damp grit of the wall. Behind him, the sounds of a struggle, blunt flat sound of fists, harsh breathing, boots sliding over rock floor, grunts of effort and pain. It all had nothing to do with him. He wiped his face on his sleeve, finger combed his hair back into order.

"This is not what it means to be a Templar," a voice behind him . Barely restrained growl, gravelly, with a roar fighting to escape. 

"A mage's place is under our protection." Thud of knuckles on bare skin.

"We must never," (Crack of bone against rock) "Ever. Become what mages must seek protection against."

Quiet groan of dazed pain. A man spitting. Tiny bouncing rattle of something hard on the flagstones. A tooth, perhaps.

"I would ask if I am understood. But I find I don't care." Hobnailed boots as running feet pounded down the stairs. "Captain Rylen, my thanks for your prompt arrival. Take these...animals to the cells," the Commander ordered.

Dorian took a deep, shaky breath, let it out slowly. He turned to lean one shoulder against the wall, casually, a bystander.

"Ser." Rylen saluted, fist to chest. He spun on his heel, indicated the slumped row of five injured men with a nod. They each bore marks of a violent brawl; bruises deepening on cheek or jaw, a thin drip of blood from split lip or brow. 

The detail of guards he'd brought with him yanked each one to their feet, binding their wrists hard behind their backs. Dairic raised his eyes to look at Dorian, opened his mouth, paused. The Altus gathered himself, stood tall, back straight, and stared through him.

Whatever the soldier might have said, his eyes rolled back, head slumped to his chest, unconscious as the Commander whirled on him and slammed the edge of his shield to the ground in another Smite.

Dorian refused to flinch away from the wave of alien power that pickled across his skin. He'd never felt what the Southern Templars were capable of, and now, he'd seen it three times in one day. 

The Knight Commander paced, four steps away, four steps back, jaw clenched, lips pressed into a thin pale line, pupils pinpoint dots of rage in hot amber irises. Absently, Dorian noticed that although he carried his shield and wore his sword slung on his back, the warrior was without his customary armor, dressed instead in his barbaric bearskin mantle slung over a thin wool tunic and heavy cotton trews.

"Sorry to interrupt your bath with such a sordid little scene, Commander," Dorian offered. Normalcy. Ever graceful as a strutting peacock on the surface, even when quietly screaming inside.

The Commander of the Inquisition's forces turned, aimed that burning golden gaze at him. Dorian moved back, just a couple inches. "Ser Pavus. I... that is, allow me to personally apologize for..."

Dorian cut him off with a wave of one hand "No need, Commander. Soldiers are coarse men, it's to be expected that they play these little bedroom games more roughly than nobles. No harm done, I'm sure." His voice barely shook at all, and anyhow, any tremor was hidden by the hoarseness his exertions on Dairic's behalf had brought about.

The Fereldan stopped in his pacing, tilted his head, startled "No harm...? That can't have been your idea of fun, surely? You're all over bruises, man!" He drew in a sharp breath, shut his mouth. Started over. "I only mean. It's just. It looked like. Ah, that is, what I walked in on went considerably beyond a little rough." 

Dorian pulled his robe tighter, retied the belt. Wherever have my trews gone to? He wondered, his mind grasping at trivia. Small problems were safe, solvable. Small questions carried with them small answers that could be lived with.

"Did it? Well, I am the evil perverted Tevinter necromancer, I do have a reputation to live down to, you know," he retorted. "Speaking of which, have you seen my breeches?"

The man blushed. Actually blushed, a dark bloom of pink spreading across his pale cheeks. Dorian stared at him, amazed. "Ah. They're beyond repair, I fear. Also, they're needed as, well, evidence."

Dorian turned his shocked bark of laughter into a more fluid chuckle. "Have I committed a crime, Commander? Other than one against good taste in my choice of partners and venue."

The sight of Commander of the Inquisition stammering in confused embarrassment was an excellent distraction from...well, it was a truly excellent distraction, Dorian decided.

"I... but... that is. Maker's breath. You're not in a Circle, I suppose you can, er, consort with who you like. But surely you don't actually like.... I've never heard of a mage who. Void take it! I've not met a mage that liked having Templar abilities used on them. Quite the opposite." The Commander sighed and looked at Dorian, waiting for an explanation he clearly was unsure he wanted.

Dorian managed a casual shrug, "What can I say? Evil perverted necromancer, and all that."

The Commander rubbed a hand at the base of his neck, shook his head. "They're to be charged with abusing their powers and authority, nonetheless. The Templars, anyway. Likely the soldiers also, for aiding or standing by as the misuse of power occured."

The Commander raised one hand as Dorian began to speak. "Even if, as you say, it was voluntary, it's no excuse. They know better. Or they should. There are simply too many ways for, for such a scenario to get out of hand. I'm told you're quite a powerful mage, but even so, our... quite a few of the Templar abilities can be dangerous to mages even under controlled conditions." He shook his head, sighed again "I hope you can understand?"

Dorian nodded, curtly. He wanted another bath. Or to go back to his narrow room and wrap himself in his blankets and sleep for a month. Or possibly to find the farthest corner of the tavern and see how much he could drink of the swill that passed for ale in this benighted corner of the continent.

"Call it... indulging a certain curiosity. An experiment. Interesting, yes. Hardly worth repeating." Dorian managed. 

"I see," the Commander nodded, "Well, I apologize for prying into your private affairs, but I must admit that's a load off my mind." He slung his shield onto his back, motion fluid and effortless with long years of practice.

Dorian forced out a nod in response. The numb distance he'd been drifting in was leaving him now. His knees felt wobbly, and he just knew his hands were probably shaking like some callow apprentice faced with their first demon. Fortunately his fingers were hidden in the wide sleeves of his bathrobe. 

He sank slowly to one knee and began laboriously gathering up his scented soaps and oils, scrub brush, soft burgundy wash cloth, piling them into the wooden bucket. "Vishante kaffas!" He spat under his breath as he dropped the same vial of blood lotus blossom extract for the third time.

The Commander was instantly there, beside him, too large, too close, too sudden. His sweat smelled of the hot copper tang of rage, the burn of fading lyrium like molten glass and thunderstorms. Dorian flinched, the vial clattering from his fingers to roll away under a wood plank bench. He took deep shivery breaths, long shudders running through his body.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean..." the Commander began.

"Flaming nug teats, will you warn a person before you come looming up like that!" Dorian snapped, and sat back on his heels, fingertips rubbing at both temples. "I have had it with this day. I've lost my...my bedmate, wasted a good bath, been mauled about by inexcusably rude Templars. Followed by having to answer for my preferences to a Ferelden ploughboy turned soldier who is wearing half a bear. And now I'm freezing and I have a utter beast of a headache, on top of everything," he complained, absently.

His hands simply wouldn't stop trembling. There was an abominable sick ache at the back of his skull, bad enough that a dull cramp of nausea settled low in his stomach. Worse, there was a tight searing feeling high in his chest, clamping his throat shut. Ridiculously, it felt almost as if he was about to start crying. 

"Abuse... I mean, the Silence enchantment being abused can take a mage like that," the Commander explained, calm and slow. He rescued the escaped vial, repacked the bucket of bath supplies more neatly. "Also, I've heard, that is, Bull mentioned that a rough 'play session' can cause a bad physical reaction. Maker. I cannot believe I even know that. I have to stop letting him and Varric drag me into their conversations. Do you think you can lean on me and walk?" He offered his arm.

Dorian climbed to his feet, bracing himself on to the Commander's forearm with both hands. Moving slowly, the warrior draped one edge of his mantle around the unsteady mage and pulled him in to lean against his side. "Skyhold is a bit cold, even for the South," he admitted, "hence my reason for wearing half a bear, as you put it."

"Where are my manners today? I didn't mean that, Commander," Dorian began. 

"Just Cullen, please. You're not under my command. Someone needs to use my given name before I forget it. I know. You didn't intend to snap. It's all right. Come here." The Commander kept up a calm litany of simple, meaningless words as he rearranged the long folds of his cloak to wrap the mage more warmly.

Somehow, Dorian ended up pressed close against him, face buried in his shoulder. The knight held him in a light embrace while he shook himself to pieces, racking tremors that were somewhere between silent sobs and shivering with cold. Cullen stroked one hand from the nape of Dorian's neck to the small of his back, over and over, an absentminded motion like petting a warhound. They stood, leaning into each other, until the tremors faded away. Cullen led him to a short wooden bench by the wall, sat down beside him, one arm across his back.

"You must think me an absolute fool," he said, wry and rueful, once he could trust his voice again.

"Hardly," Cullen said, "the fools are all locked in the cells at the moment."

Dorian pushed away a bit to look at the man's face. "I can never tell when you're joking, Comman - Cullen."

His eyes narrowed, a small smile curved up one corner of his mouth. "I don't joke. I was born without a sense of humor, and lost my ability to smile due to an old war injury I got from a skirmish with the Qunari in Kirkwall. That's what I hear among the recruits."

Dorian shook his head. "Apparently rescuing idiot mortalitasi from their terrible taste in men is strangely recuperating to old war wounds, I see." He looked away, watching the drifting magelights. They had almost entirely faded, translucent wisps of blue phosphor. "I apologize for that, by the way. It was not my intention to... to cause you a discipline problem. I should never have let it get so out of hand."

Cullen took him by the shoulders, hands warm and firm through the thin velvet of Dorian's robe. "No. You will not take the blame for this on yourself. You did nothing wrong. If a soldier wants to choose a bedmate, or several, or... or if he likes to play a bit roughly..." he flushed a little, but held Dorian's eyes with his own intent stare "Well. That's up to him. Or her. Or them, as it may be. No need for me to get involved in what's between adults."

He gave Dorian a gentle shake to emphasize his words. " I don't know how it's done in the northern lands, but here, when someone says stop, it stops. No question or argument. Anything else is a breach of law, and you can bet if I hear of it, I'll act. We need soldiers who fight to uphold the safety and freedoms of others, not thugs who - Maker's blade, I'm sorry. Didn't mean to lecture." He looked down, rubbed the back of his neck again.

Dorian twirled the left tip of his mustache back into shape, a tiny smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Not at all. It's rather fascinating to see a chaste Templar farmboy with such an 'anything goes' attitude towards creative perversion - so long as it's in good fun between willing partners. I wouldn't have credited it."

Cullen huffed a heavy sigh, rolled his eyes to the arched stone ceiling. "Andraste give me strength. Where do all these rumors about me being a celibate innocent Chantry boy come from? Yes, I'm from a farm outside Honnleath. And yes, I joined the Order at thirteen. But seriously, I was stationed in Kirkwall. Kirk. Wall. Have these people not heard of the place? I've seen things that made a Rivaini pirate captain blush. Even if I didn't have time or energy to, er, participate, at the time."

Dorian lifted one brow at that last remark, feeling more like himself. The Commander's arm around his shoulders was heavy, but felt strangely steadying, and the man was deliciously warm and solid beside him. It should have seemed odd, to be so informal and close with his partner in casual chess matches and infrequent t book exchanges. A strange lassitude had taken him over, as if even the decision to stand and go to his rooms would be a debilitating effort.

"A man of hidden depths, indeed," he murmured. "My favorite sort." The mage massaged the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger as he realized that last thought had escaped straight out his mouth without his intent.

Cullen snorted a surprised laugh. "About that. I'd heard that you and Dairic were. Well. Something. It surprised me. You're educated, cultured, I don't know, refined, I suppose. Dairic... he's a good soldier. Clear headed in a fight. Not stupid. Just, not a complicated person. Simple. Never likely to be up for promotion, since he tends to let others do his thinking too often. I'd wondered..."

"Opposites attract each other?" Dorian suggested.

"Possibly." Cullen allowed, "I'll admit, it didn't seem like the sort of match that I'd expect to find a man of your caliber in."

The mage lifted his chin, straightened his back. "Are you saying that I was too good for him, Commander?" He teased.

"Essentially, yes." Cullen replied. 

Dorian opened his mouth to say something teasing, protest in scornful indignation. Instead, he found himself saying, "He wasn't ashamed of me. He never asked me to hide what we were to each other. Actually, he flaunted it. Whatever his flaws, he was proud to have me. And I've gone and ruined it, I suppose."

Void take it all, Pavus, you can't just vomit raw emotional pathos all over the Commander like that. What he must think of you! He chided himself. 

Cullen's red blond brows knotted together in confusion, making him look even more like a hunting warhound than usual. "Well, of course he was proud. Low ranking infantryman, no background, no education, and a brilliant, talented Altus from the inner circle of the Inquisition wants to share his bedroll. Despite the fact he could have any other man he wanted, among those of similar inclination. I'm surprised that he didn't hire Maryden to write a song announcing it."

Dorian shook his head, sharp, short denial, "You make it sound so effortless. I've never had that. Everyone who's wanted me, has wanted to keep me as their dirty little secret. It meant more than I like to admit, that someone wanted everyone to know."

Cullen's arm tightened around his shoulders. "But that's... for example, if I ever found a man I could call a shieldmate, that's just expected. You don't have to shout it from the battlements, but it's just not done to keep it a secret, at least from your friends. If you fall in battle, someone needs to know to get the news to your loved ones. Or if you're injured, the healers need to know who's allowed to visit. The knight lieutenants need to know so they can assign tent and bunk arrangements effectively."

Dorian couldn't keep from slumping, couldn't keep the bitterness from creeping into his tone. "I might have known it was nothing special."

"I didn't say that!" Cullen interrupted, "Believe me, Dairic erred on the side of shouting it from the battlements. If I had to guess, if I were in his place, I'd say he couldn't believe his luck and didn't know how to handle it. Perhaps he believed he didn't deserve you and had no idea how to keep you with him beyond staking his claim clearly for all to know. Maybe he couldn't imagine one simple soldier could be enough for you. I... it makes sense."

Dorian began to protest, but no words came easily to mind. The shaggy dog lord farm boy is right, you know. His thoughts betrayed him, siding with Cullen.

"How do you do it? You look like some magnificent dumb beast who thinks with his muscles, then you open your mouth and lo and behold, common sense comes out." He managed.

Cullen blinked. "Thanks. I think."

The soft brush of bare feet on the flagstones beside them cut off whatever response Dorian might have been able to muster.

"Solas." Cullen nodded.

"Cole said that a wounded lion was holding an injured serpent, burned by holy fire, below the roots of the tower. I assumed there were injured in need of assistance."

He held out a pair of pottery flasks, the healers symbols for "elfroot" and "healing" chalked on the sides of each.

Cullen sighed and took a bottle from the apostate, yanked out the cork in a thoughtless show of strength, and passed the open flask to Dorian. "That's as straightforward as Cole is likely to be, I imagine," he observed. 

Dorian poured half the flask down his sore throat in one long draught, and sighed as he felt the herbs begin soothing the irritation instantly. This is excellent. Much stronger than usual, he realized. Must be an eleven variation on the blend. I must ask Solas to show me.

"Indeed." Solas agreed. "May I?" He reached towards Dorian's face. The Altus prodded at his own cheekbone, finding a swollen bruise he hadn't realized was there. He made a "help yourself" gesture at the elf. Solas pulled on the energy of the Fade, setting up an answering chime of mana within Dorian. A mist of soft green light settled over him. It felt like sea spray, made the fine hairs on his skin pickle. 

"If only you could bottle that, my apostate friend," Dorian slurred, feeling nearly drunk. "Speaking of bottles, what was in this?" He waved the half empty flask of elfroot potion at the elf.

"Forgive me, the blend we have ready mixed for seriously injured patients includes a sleeping potion. I assumed time was of the essence, so I brought what I already had on hand."

"You spoil me, Solas." Dorian mumbled. His head felt so heavy. Fortunately, Cullen's broad shoulder was conveniently placed, padded with a mane of soft fur. Funny. It doesn't smell like a dead bear at all. Armor polish and pinewood smoke and spindle weed muscle rub. Nice. Quite attractive, actually. Did I say that out loud? 

Cullen's chuckle reverberated through his chest. Dorian felt it as much as heard it. "You did. Must be a side effect."

"A fairly common one, though harmless," Solas confirmed. 

"Come on, let's get you to bed." Cullen urged, shaking him gently.

"Thought you'd nev'r ask, Command'r, " Dorian mumbled, turning his face into the man's shoulder. "Your bed or mine? Or both?"

Solas cleared his throat "That, however, is an unusual side effect."

Cullen hauled Dorian into a standing position, supporting most of his weight. "Not really. It seems to be a normal side effect of Ser Pavus being, well, himself."

Dorian made it up the first eight steps with Cullen's assistance, before he stumbled and sat down. "M'apologies. Bit drunk. Normally I've a better head for wine or elfroot or what have you. Just. Lemme rest a moment. Go ahead. I'll be along shortly. S' fine."

Cullen blew out a long breath, part laugh, part exasperated sigh. "No, I don't think so. Come on, Ser Pavus."

Dorian felt himself lifted against the Commander's chest, heard the muffled grunt of effort as he straightened his knees. 

"Bit more solid than he looks," he remarked to Solas, out of breath as he carried his semiconscious burden up the undercroft stairs. 

"I do spar. And run. Miles. Ev'ry day. M' a combat mage," Dorian protested. "Not some soft caged mage from one'f y'r...dreary sad mage prisons..." he slurred, trailed off.

"Clearly not." He heard the Commander say.

***

He woke in his own bed, robe tangled around him, one side of his mustache bent backwards from where he'd had his face buried in a pillow. His head felt stuffed with hot wool and his mouth tasted as if he'd been chewing rashvine. 

"Ugh. At least I'm warm enough. For once." He grumbled. Actually, he was almost too warm. He pawned at the blankets, shoving off layers of wool, fustian velvet, and thick sleek fur. Wait. Fur? I don't own a fur throw, he thought. He hauled the offending item up to his face and squinted at it in the dim light from the tiny window. Heavy red-black bear fur, with an underlayer of red wool. 

Kaffas! He swore, mentally. I was hoping it was a nightmare sent by a despair demon. Or maybe there's such a thing as a crippling-social-embarrasment demon.

Dorian flopped back onto his bed, too soul weary and heartsick to move just yet, the warm weight of the Commander's mantle draped across him.

Pavus, he told himself of all the ludicrous messes you've made of your life, this one surely trumps them all.

***


	2. Lion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Commander tries to go on and have a normal day after having to pull a couple Templars and one of his own soldiers off of his friend, Dorian, and throw the attackers in the cells for everything he can prove or make stick.
> 
> He's fine. Really. Just needs to keep busy and take his mind off of things. They are at war, after all. Life can't just stop because someone he cares about gets hurt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's some interlude before stuff gets dark again.
> 
> Some terrible self esteem, slightly disordered eating habits, disassociative behavior, and escaping into workaholic habits to avoid thinking about traumatic events.
> 
> Looks like the Lion of Honnleath is setting himself up for panic attack & a bit of a breakdown next chapter, just to pre-warn for triggery stuff. (I get these myself & have had a couple friends with C-PTSD and anxiety disorders, so it could end up being more realistic than some might enjoy.)

Lion, Serpent, and Ice

(Pt. 2 of Serpent, Lion, Flame.)

***

Cullen shut the door to the Altus’s small bedroom behind him, and leaned his shoulder on the corridor wall beside the doorframe. He dragged one shaking hand across his forehead, rubbing at his temples.

“Ser?” Guard Lisbeth asked, just louder than a whisper. 

Cullen stood to attention, turning towards her. The short dark Marcher woman stood her ground. He noticed her weight shifted back on her heels, a sign she’d thought about taking a step back.

Calm, Rutherford, he ordered himself, and try not to terrify all the wrong people. 

“Lisbeth, my apologies. I didn't see you there.” he said.

“Ser,” she replied with a slight nod, face carefully neutral. 

Her gaze shifted in a quick glance to Dorian’s door and then back to her commander. She regained discipline almost instantly, though, and didn't blurt out the question written in the tense lines of her stance.

“I recall you had inquired about the possibility of working more closely with the Templars stationed at Skyhold, ”Why was that? I’m asking informally. Be as detailed as you like.”

“I have a nephew who came into his magic a few years back. His talents lie in the Spirit branch of magic pretty strongly, so it took us all a while to figure out what was going on,” She shrugged and bit her lower lip. “Looking back, we can't figure how we didn't see it. But at the time, well… he's a decent healer, did a lot of work with the farm animals, but we always just thought he had a knack with them. And he's good at barriers, but we all figured he was just a tough kid, the kind that doesn't bruise easy.”

Cullen rubbed at his chin with one hand, feeling two days of stubble prickle against his sword calluses. “But somebody else noticed?” He guessed.

She nodded yes, focusing back on the Commander. “Right, Ser. There was a retired Templar named Blake who lived in our village. He did a bit of training the local Bann’s guard and the town militia in how to chase off bandits. He’d have some funny turns now and again, where he didn't seem to know anybody around him for a few hours, then he'd come back out of it and be right as rain again.”

“That can happen,” Cullen agreed. That might be the way it goes for me, he thought, Except I doubt I should worry overmuch about making it to retirement.

“I’d heard it can, Ser,” She replied. “Anyhow, Ser Blake, well, he was odd at times but still sharp when it counted. It was him as noticed Jerran was pulling on the Fade. He could feel it, he said, like someone tugging at his elbow.” She raised one brow in a curious arch.

The Commander tilted his head in thought, then told her, “Some say it takes them like that when a mage is working nearby. Others say it’s like a lodestone in their bones, or hearing a chantry bell ringing in their head and following the sound to the source. Every Templar senses it slightly differently.” 

For him, a mage at work had always felt like cold flames licking across his skin, tugging, caressing. A demon, though, was like thorns of steel, claws of bone, scraped lightly over sunburned flesh. Abominations, worst of all, combined both illusory sensations with the unshakable feeling that something both scaly and slimy with unthinkable filth was slowly dragging its chill belly along his inmost thoughts. His skin prickled with the memory, fine hairs standing up along his arms. He repressed a shudder. It showed only in the tightened muscles at his jawline and a slight straightening of his spine, he was sure.

Guard Lisbeth looked at him sideways from the corners of her eyes. “I never knew that Ser. True enough, Ser Blake felt it all right. Came across three fields and our hazel wood to tell us we’d a mage on our hands. But by then, the whole village and the farms were snowed in deep for the season. No way to get to a circle, or even get word out that we needed help. When Jer started meeting demons and spirits in his dreams, Blake came and slept on a pallet on the boy’s floor for near on a month. Must've woke up four times a night or more to Silence Jer and pull him out of the Fade.

“Another thing, there's some who wouldn't’ve taken time for a youngling ten years old, to tell them all about the Circles, make sure they weren’t scared or sad to go. Blake did, though. Told Jer about the great libraries, and all the magic he'd learn to do, and how important Spirit healers are. Kid must've packed and repacked his knapsack a dozen times.” She smiled at the memory, forgetting to keep the formally distant expression of a Guard.

Cullen found himself smiling back, one corner of his mouth curling upward unwittingly. “That’s what the Templar order was meant to do. Guard mages from the dangers of being a mage.” He looked down at the uneven stones of the hallway floor, rubbed the old ache at the back of his skull.

“That’s what I thought, too, Ser,” Lisbeth added, “And Jer was my favorite nephew. Woulda trained as a Templar and joined him at whatever Circle he wound up at, if I could.I’d always meant to train as a Guard anyhow. Maybe Ser Blake taught me a little more than I properly needed just for that. But I was far and away too old to go as a Templar. 

“By then, that Spring, when we took Jer to the Lothering Chantry, there was a Blight on and we all had bigger worries. Ser Blake fell getting a bunch of druffalo herders safe past a pack of Hurlocks, Jer went on to help rebuild the Redcliffe Circle, and I answered the call put out by the Banns and Teryns. But I owe the Templar Order for what it’s done for me and mine, Ser.” Her tone was serious, a woman simply stating a fact, but her eyes shone with the passion she kept from her voice.

Cullen rubbed at his brow again. He found himself gritting his teeth, and forced himself to relax. “I’m surprised you think so well of us… of the Order, after such uncivilized conduct as you were forced to assist with. If you wish to rethink your request for assignment, I’d understand.”

Guard Lisbeth was already shaking her head no before he completely finished. “No, Ser. There’s bad guards, who I woudn’t trust to watch a dead fennec, and bad cooks who can make baked apple taste like burned deep mushrooms. Reckon there can be good and bad Templars just as easy.”

Cullen swallowed and took a long slow breath before he felt able to speak, “Right. True enough, Guard. I don’t want to set a Templar guard to look after Ser Pavus, but neither am I willing to leave a mage asleep and unguarded when their mind is dulled by pain-easing drugs. It sounds as though you may be the Maker-sent answer to my dilemma. Would you recognize the signs of a mage having trouble in the Fade?”

“Aye, Ser,” she replied, without pausing, “Seen it often enough. With Jerren and then with the mages that helped fight the darkspawn.”

“Call their name, and tell them to wake. Don’t touch them, although you can splash a handful of cold water on their face. And if that doesn’t work…” Cullen advised.

“Then I’ll go running for a Templar, you can bet, Ser,” Lisbeth interrupted.

“That’s right,” Cullen began, then frowned. “Except, in this case, perhaps. Yes. If there’s trouble and you cannot wake the Altus, come find me instead.” He lifted one hand to forestall any questions. “I may have left the order to join an even higher cause, but I’m confident I can still handle a mage in need of assistance.”

“Ser,” she repeated, and saluted. 

He returned the salute, and turned to go. After a few steps he turned back. The young woman stood, back to Ser Pavus’s door, relaxed but ready, eyes on the opposite wall of the corridor. If her stance was less than formal, still, it was better than the overzealous pretense of alert vigilance he'd half expected. Instead, the guardswoman had fallen into the comfortable trancelike stance of one used to standing long watches. 

“You'd have made a fine Templar,” he said, without realizing he'd intended to speak at all. “Would that I'd had a dozen of your sort in Kirkwall.” The Commander felt the hot glow of a blush bloom along his cheekbones. It was not seemly for a Knight Commander to share his thoughts so freely with the troops.

Although he'd spoken low, not pitched for the ears of another, Lisbeth saluted again, knuckles of her gauntlet clicking against her breastplate. “I'd heard that went all pear shaped, towards the end. Ser.”

Maker’s shiny blue knickers, the girl truly was a diamond in the rough. Emphasis on the rough. He found himself biting back a laugh. Truly, he wasn't quite himself today.

“Ah. Well. I did say Kirkwall,” he replied.

She nodded as if she knew what he meant. Certainly, there were enough stories circulating by now. Maybe she did, somewhat.   
“That you did, Ser. But you've got me here and now, me and my mates. We're your men,” her pride showed in the way her spine straightend, in the steel that crept into her tone. “ ‘Cept for those of us who’re women, Ser,” she added.

This time he did laugh, no more than a heavier breath, not quite a snort. “Thank Andraste for you all,” he managed, and turned again to stride away up the steep stairs at the end of the hall. Maker. She really was a treasure.

It was all right, at first. He'd lost almost two hours to the, well, it went down in his quickly assembled report as a disciplinary action against Templars for unsanctioned use and abuse of their abilities and inappropriate conduct unbecoming… he nearly wrote “Knights of the Order,” caught himself, and instead scratched out the false start and replaced it with “members of Inquisition forces.”

There was the duty roster to review, and the weekly inventory of equipment, and the Quartermaster’s invoices. Then he buried himself in a stack of reports from patrols stationed near all the Inquisition’s field camps.

Down in the training yard, he met with the group he'd placed in charge of specialized training, both of recruits and more advanced soldiers. Three weeks and they had yet to arrive at a final training schedule. Part of the difficulty was that they were a motley bunch, Knights, officers of three different Banns’ military forces, veterans of Ostagar and the Blight, a senior enchanter from a disbanded circle that Cullen was unfamiliar with, and five professional trainers for hire in a variety of disciplines each sent by nobles eager to gain favor with the Inquisition. 

Also, problematically, the Lady Sera, who scoffed and picked her teeth when he addressed her as such. Ostensibly she was there to teach “melee skirmish archery”, whatever that was. As far as Cullen could tell, she didn't really know how she did what she did. Her classes tended to consist of sticking longbows in the hands of terrified recruits and then chasing them across the rooftops with drawn daggers. Today, there were even a couple mercenaries. That category technically included Lieutenant Aclassi, of course.

The Lieutenant and Sera stayed behind after the meeting broke up. Cullen stood with one hand on the top rail of the sparring ring fence. The splintery wood was sun warmed under his hand. He frowned, looking from one side of the training grounds to the other.

“Something wrong, Ser,” Cremisius asked, from close beside his left elbow. 

“Even with the changes we made, I’m concerned thst perhaps there's just not enough hours of daylight to give every group the time they need for practice,” he admitted.

Dealing with Ser Cremisius was always a source of mild but pleasant confusion for the Commander. The man was always so properly, militarily formal when dealing with him. It was a relief to deal with at least one officer who knew how to act like an officer.

And yet, there was was a certain glint in the Tevene soldier's eye, a decided upturn at the edges of his mouth, that often led Cullen to wonder of he wasn't gently being made fun of by the Chargers’ second in command. Especially because he knew Ser Cremesius tended to address his own commanding officer as “Hey, boss.” As in, “Hey, boss, me and the boys chipped in for your name day and got your tent dyed pink. It's a really intimidating pink, though. And we bought you an hour with those twin redheads.”

“How about we have the training groups overlap by an hour at the end of each group’s session?” the Lieutenant suggested.

Cullen turned to look at the training yard again. It was well appointed, and efficiently laid out. But they'd chosen the spot in Skyhold’s courtyard before anyone knew just how big the Inquisition ranks would grow. 

“A fine thought, Ser Cremisius,” he replied, “But I fear the space is simply too small for our numbers. Two different training groups would interfere with each other.”

“So let them, Ser,” Crem countered. “Have, oh, say archers finishing up with target work and apprentice mages coming in for their basic elemental casting. Archers can switch to using blunt headed shafts, then they square off and spar.” The mercenary crouched down and drew tactical diagrams with a gauntleted forefinger in the packed dirt of the sparring ring to illustrate as he spoke. “Maybe try archers against mages to start, then split ‘em into teams and let them melee. Dalish has some old eleven archery tricks we could use. Like, a squad of archers can get off a volley, then their mages cast fire or lightning on the arrows mid air. Gives the mages’ attacks more range than they'd have, and saves on having to enchant arrowheads. It's impressive. Uh. When the Chargers can afford to hire a mage, anyway.”

Cullen shook his head. Sera broke in before he could reply. “Put any magic shite on my arrows and I'll put jam in your smalls. Serve you right to wake up with a bear eating your jimmies.”

“I'll thank you not to make our local bear problem worse, Sera,” Cullen snapped, and then rubbed at the growing dull ache at the base of his skull. I actually just had to say that, he thought in bemused horror.

“Excellent thought, Ser Cremisius,” he ploughed on. “With the unusual way our campaign is spread out over two countries, it would be well for our forces to learn to cooperate in unorthodox ways. We're not a traditional military force. Perhaps traditional tactics are not our best strength.”

The lieutenant nodded, flashing a quick smile. “We could try having Sera put jam in the enemy's smalls.” Maker’s breath, now the Lieutenant truly was was teasing him. 

The Commander felt the muscles of his jaw tighten. The ache in his neck felt heavier, like the pinch of a badly placed harness strap. “I don't think we need to resort to ursine sabotage of hostile underthings, just yet. Let's try mixed unit tactics first and see how we do. Perhaps you'd be willing to draw up a tentative practice roster?”

Crem came to attention and gave a salute that even Knight Commander Meredith couldn't have found fault with. “As you say, Ser.”

The headache was in his sinuses now too, making his eyes feel hot and swollen, as if there was a heavy bag of sand laid across the bridge of his nose. I'll eat my shield if he doesn't already have a proposed training schedule written out, Cullen thought. I was maneuvering officers to give me the orders that needed giving when this pup was still playing with wooden soldiers. He shook his head. Of course, he reminded himself, a smart officer knows when to let them think they're getting away with it. Good soldiers want to do their jobs, and a good leader will get out of the way and let them.

“Ser?” Cremisius repeated. Cullen blinked, brought his attention back to the here and now. The bell for dinner was pealing, he realized, high and thin, from the other side of the keep Before quitting lyrium, had his mind wandered like this? 

“Apologies, Lieutenant. Carry on,” he ordered. The mercenary fell into step beside Cullen as they both headed for the dining hall. He rubbed the sore muscles at the side of his jaw, then scowled as his calluses rasped across last night's stubble. He'd meant to shave this morning, but just before dawn Liliana had called the Inqusition leaders to a covert war table session about a chance to spy on Corypheus’s second in command.Later, he’d hoped to shave after his bath. 

Cremisius shot him a sideways look as they walked. Cullen dropped his hand to his sword hilt.

“Some days, seems like they don't even give a fellow time to shave, shine or sh-, well, maybe an officer wouldn't have heard the saying, Ser.” the mercenary finished, with a rueful grin.

Cullen patted the merc on his shoulder, the scrape of gauntlet against pauldron making him wince as it made his headache throb. “They don't hatch officers from Vhargast eggs. Hard as it may be to believe, I was was a recruit. We used to have a sandglass with a count of ninety in our dormitory. Started at first bell. Whatever we were wearing when the sand ran out, that's what we went to morning assembly and breakfast in.”

Cremisius smirked. “Bet you never marched out to assembly in your smalls, Ser.”

Cullen fixed him with a sharp look. “Of course not, Aclassi.” He realized he was glowering, and schooled his expression to pleasant neutrality. “Because for the first month I slept in my armor.”

The merc laughed, a short guffaw, boyish.

“I did know someone, though. My bunk mate, second year. He loved sleep more than anything, except cheese, maybe. He woke up mean, to make it worse. We finally tired of dragging him out of his bunk every morning. One day we just let him sleep. He missed assembly, and came running into the refectory halfway through breakfast in just his smalls. Not standard issue, either. Crimson silk with little white mabari, I recall.”

Cremisius chuckled, and shook his head in disbelief. “Bunkmates. Ah, he sounds like a real spoiled noble type, the kind that wants you to wait on him like a little prince.”

“He could be a bit of a bastard,” Cullen admitted, absently. “But he never minded when it was his turn to be the butt of a joke. That time, he came to attention, ripped off a salute that would have made the Divine proud, and marched out like he was leading the Midsummer parade.”

“There’s a picture, Ser,” Cremisius said, expression exaggeratedly solemn.

They walked side by side, joining the stream of people headed towards the mess hall. Cullen swiped his palm irritably across his jawline again, and glanced sidelong at the mercenary officer. The man was always so neat, it was almost annoying. His hair was trimmed short on the sides in the style of Tevene foot soldiers. Every piece of his armor was polished to a sleek, oily sheen. And he always sported the cleanest shave of just about any of the Inquisition’s men. 

“I could only wish half our forces ran as tight a ship as the Chargers, Lieutenant,” he observed. “Someday you'll have to tell me how you get a clean shave to last past the five o’clock bell.”

The merc stared at him, eyes narrowed. “With all respect, are you fucking with me, Ser?”

Cullen tilted his head to one side, confused. “What? No. Not at all. It's just, I can be clean shaven as a pet nug at dawn, and by dinner I look like a molting quillback. I honestly don't know how you do it.”

Crem rolled his eyes. It was a slight motion, but unmistakable. “Seriously? It's… ah, call it an old Tevinter shaving secret,” he replied. His face was carefully neutral. 

Cullen sighed, exasperated, and shoved open the heavy carved door to the dining hall a bit harder than he'd intended. “Be like that, then, Lieutenant. It was meant as a compliment.”

The mercenary officer shot him an odd look, one brow lifted. “Keep sweet talking, maybe I just will show you, one of these days, Ser.”

He held the door open for Cullen, as was proper for a lower ranked officer, nodded farewell, and joined the rest of his company at their usual table near the kitchens. Josephine had offer them a better place, more suited to their role as trusted agents, but Grim had spoke out for once, saying “Closer to the food.” The other Chargers had wholeheartedly agreed. 

Cullen took his place at the Inquistor’s table, to the left of the chair the Herald always used. The table was mostly empty at the moment. Sera and Varric preferred to take meals in the tavern. Vivienne was entertaining old friends, a Duchess and assorted family members, and Josephine, at a private dinner in her quarters. Liliana and Cassandra were there, already deep in conversation, heads together.

Adaar was off with Cole and Blackwall again, still trying to chase down some of the smaller Rifts that kept popping up in the Hinterlands, spilling minor demons out that kept farmers and common folk from working their land or checking their traps or watching their herds. It was wearying work, requiring days in the saddle tracking down rumors that sometimes turned out to be nothing, other times turned out to be ambushes. 

Dark times, Cullen thought, when the best case scenario meant that at the end of a long, saddlesore and sunburned ride, your leader would find a rip in reality vomiting demons into the world, and not just a false trail or a pack of assassins.

Maybe it was a peasant farm boy way to think, but of all the hateful aspects of war, Cullen hated most of all how rival factions brawling across countries often ignored one simple, critical fact: armies need food. Farm folk make food. Or, they did, right up until some benighted fool turned their cornfields into a battlefield. Win or lose, the survivors would still need to eat. 

He'd never expected to share much in common with a Tal-Vashoth, a mage, or a mercenary. Now his commanding officer was all three of those things.

Cullen poked at his baked river perch with the tines of his fork. Actually, Adaar reminds me a bit of my father, he reflected, or sometimes of First Enchanter Irving. He ate without really tasting the baked fish and grilled chopped vegetables. Food was different, now. With lyrium honing every sense to a gleaming edge, even boiled oatmeal was a richly layered mix of flavors, milky, with a backdrop of roasted nuts, a grassy green overtone like dry hay, a hint of fresh ground flour. And afterwards, now that he'd stopped, it all tasted like porridge mash used to taste to him as a boy. Bland, mushy, too salty. There was shortbread for afters, though. Sweets were still all right. Not the same as they had been, but all right. He folded a couple extra buttery shortbread cakes into a cloth napkin and tucked them into his belt pouch for later tonight. 

That was another thing, after lyrium. He never felt much hunger anymore, not until he already felt bonelessly tired and saw his hands shaking in front of him. How did one know how much to eat? Probably he'd known, once. These days, he ate what he found on his plate. Surely the cooks knew by now what was appropriate for a soldier. Appetite wasn't necessary. The bells of Skyhold told him when he should take meals. 

And if he got absorbed too deeply in a task now and then, so that he failed to hear the call to dine, well, there were others who needed the food more. It wasn't as if he worked hard most days. He never stood watch in the freezing wind atop the ramparts, or patrolled the trails and wagon roads near Skyhold. Training, paperwork, a bit of sparring, more training, riding out to camps and fortresses to inspect the Inquisition’s holdings and troops. Leading from the front ranks of any major assaults, but that certainly wasn’t a regular day. Cullen knew his average day musy hardly be what a merc infantryman or a stablehand would call a real day's work.

Come to think of it, I have dropped some muscle, he reminded himself. He'd had to find a leather punch last week and make new holes one notch beyond the last ones on most of the straps of his armor. Well, at least I know the cure for that.

He rose, and on the way to take his plate to the nearest wooden wash barrel, he leaned down to speak to Cassandra. Leliana had already taken her leave a few minutes ago. Now the Seeker was finishing her second helping of grilled trout. She ate like a soldier, quickly, workmanlike, but held her knife and fork like a noble woman at a banquet, back straight, napkin neatly across her lap.

“My thanks for your support earlier on that matter of discipline among the Templars,” he began.

“Please,” the Seeker said, her Nevarran accent clipping past consonants and lingering over the vowels of the Common tongue. “In a strange, sad way, it was a relief to discover that all that was needed was to simply do the true job of a Seeker.”

“I understand. At times it seems we're all doing work we never trained for,” he admitted.   
Cassandra snorted. “There is no training for the situation we find ourselves in. But I do not think you wished merely to offer thanks?”

Cullen nodded. The Seeker, true to her title, saw right to the heart of matters. “True. It's been a trying day. I was hoping you'd be interested in sparring, later?”

“Maker, yes,” she responded, “At least I don't have to hold back with you.”

He clapped her on the shoulder, squeezed, let go. “Nor I. Hm. You should try Bull, or Cremisius. They're a good workout to go against.”

Cassandra made a face as if she'd bitten into a bitter deep mushroom rind. “Ugh. I have.”

He waited.

“They are more than capable warriors,” she confessed, “But the Iron Bull enjoys it when I hit him. In an… unseemly fashion. And he makes extremely personal, intimate remarks in Qunlat and Tevene about it.”

“I didn't know you spoke either language,” he said.

“I do not. But his lieutenant translates for him. Sometimes with gestures.” she growled. 

Cullen nodded in understanding. “I see. The usual time, then?”

She raised her glass of Antivan merlot to him. “Sundown,” she agreed.

He walked through the soldiers’ camps, here and there choosing one of the enlisted to speak to. A couple of tents were set up wrong, pegs not in deep enough, cords too loose, or facing so the prevailing wind would blow down off the snowpack up on the peaks above the keep, bringing a freezing draft into the front flap of the tent all night. He ordered them moved, and helped the soldiers responsible do it better this time.

He did a turn up and down the halls and corridors and basement passages of the castle, checking to see that there were guards patrolling and standing watch where they should be. In the garden courtyard, the pair of guards at the entrance saluted as they heard his tread on the walkway approaching from behind, before they saw him.

“Good trick, knowing the Commander’s footsteps without looking, Sigyr,” he observed. “Maybe you should speak to Sister Nightingale about trying out as a scout.”

 

“Aye, Ser,” the Starkhaven lad replied. He somehow managed to give the impression of saluting, even though he was already holding a salute. 

Cullen pulled on the corner of pasteboard poking out from under Sigyr’s left bracer. The pikeman flushed as his Commander fanned the hand of Wicked Grace cards out, looked at them, swept them back together. He tucked them back under the young man's bracer.

“Good thinking, having someone run ahead and tell people there's an officer heading your way,” he observed. “I believe I will recommend you both to Leliana.”

“Please don't, Ser,” Sigyr’s voice was steady, but pitched higher than usual.

“Nonsense.” Cullen slapped him on the back. “Modesty is becoming, but talent deserves recognition.”

Sigyr swallowed, nodded, swallowed again. “Ser.” He sounded as if his throat were dry.

Cullen nodded to them and moved on. Behind him, he heard the other guard, an older man from the Anderfels, say quietly, “Look at it this way, laddie. After this, almost getting ripped in half by abominations won't seem near as bad.”

***

**Author's Note:**

> See, I was going to write a more cerebral piece about machismo, masculinity, gender roles, and how men cope with the aftermath of rape and torture when "real men" are not "supposed" to be able to have those things happen.
> 
> Of course my main POV was supposed to be Cullen. Because come on, Kinloch is the elephant in Bioware's room. You can't tell me that demons and abominations wouldn't use sexual assault and torture as a tactic. 
> 
> And during the Canon events of DA:II, the Knight Captain sure acts like a guy struggling with all kinds of C-PTSD. 
> 
> You also can't deny that Cullen living in Kirkwall and trying to pretend he's not seeing mages abused by Templars wouldn't be incredibly triggering also. So he'd have a lot to work through, plenty of interesting changes in how he thinks about the roles he lives in.
> 
> But then my muse said "Hey what if Cullen walks in on a rough but consensual scene between Dorian and people, misunderstands what's happening, is triggered, flips out, Dorian and / or Iron Bull helps him through it & help him begin to find some perspective & coping skills."
> 
> And my libido said "Dorian naked in a bathtub? What could go wrong?" It's Dorian. I should have known better. 
> 
> Somehow that ended with poor Dorian assaulted by a Templar and Cullen being the stable one or at least faking it. No idea WTF.
> 
> ...Not that there couldn't still be a part two where Cullen gets Dorian to safety and then freaks out alone somewhere. Which is absolutely his style...
> 
> No. Stop me before I make it worse.
> 
> *fandom trash author crawls into dumpster & slams lid behind her*


End file.
